Ironside: Money Makes the World Go Round
by Mounty Swiss
Summary: WHN to "Alias Mr. Braithwaite" (Ironside), set S3, september 1969. (It is not necessary to have seen the episode to understand the story.) Ed accepts rich Mr. Bixby's invitation, but not everything is the way it looks. As usual Chief Ironside has to save the day.
1. Chapter 1

**Ironside: Money Makes the World Go Round**

_WHN to "Alias Mr. Braithwaite" (Ironside), set S3, september 1969. It is not necessary to have seen the episode to understand the story._

_Episode summary:_  
_Mark's Aunt Ruby loses her life savings to a distinguished-looking con artist. In an effort to recover the money, Ironside sets up Ed and Eve as wealthy couple ('Mr. and Mrs. Bixby') in a resort so the thief can be caught__ red-handed__._

_Story summary:  
Ed accepts rich Mr. Bixby's i__nvitation, but not everything is the way it looks. As usual Chief Ironside has to save the day._

* * *

**Friday**

The evening was warm and pleasant. Mexican music hit det. Sgt. Ed Brown's ear. There was probably a fiesta somewhere, people dancing and enjoying themselves. He didn't begrudge it to them.  
He stretched his back contentedly. It was one of those moments when things could not get any better. Behind him lay a solved case, ahead of him a weekend off– something very rare for a member of Chief Robert T. Ironside's staff. Oh, he would never have traded regular office hours and free weekends against working with the Chief. Ironside was by far the best investigator on the force and the best teacher one could have, and he cared for his people… and yes, Ed liked the grumpy slave driver a lot, let alone his friends Eve and Mark who worked with him. Still a weekend off was something he was greatly looking forward to.

During the tracking down of 'Mr. Braithwaite' and the recovering of Aunt Ruby's money he had used an old Marine buddy's name and company as an undercover. When Edward Bixby had found out about it he had not been pleased at first, but then he had invited him for a weekend. Now Ed had seized the opportunity and accepted the invitation right away.  
The drive out to Bixby's summer residence was already an enjoyment. Unfortunately Eve, who had been invited too, had other plans… plans that didn't include Sgt. Brown, not to mention the fact that they would not quite have matched his budget.

What would Mrs. Marilyn Bixby be like? He had never met her. Doubtlessly she was a beauty. Bixby had never been one to settle for the next best thing…

This estimation was confirmed by the sight in front of his eyes when he reached the Bixby estate about an hour's driving away. It exuded wealth. A wrought-iron gate blocked the access road to Bixby's house. On both sides it was attached to high concrete walls. Beyond the gate, in the background, a building like an old Scottish castle was to be seen.

Ed got out of his Ford. There was no door handle to open the gate. How should he…

"Hello, old pirate, welcome to my castle!" a familiar voice sounded out of a small grid in the wall on the left side.

There had to be a monitoring camera somewhere! It was well hidden. The trained police officer had to look closely to detect it between the branches of a tree, although not far away from the gate.

Then the gate opened miraculously… an electrical mechanism obviously, operated by a remote control unit. Ed decided to stop wondering and got back into his Sedan. He parked the car in the parking space in front of a huge swimming pool, where it looked rather shabby between a 1968 Jaguar and a brand new Lamborghini Miura.

Edward approached him, a wide grin on his face. "Ed! It's so good to see you!"

He shook Ed's hand in a pump-handle movement. The tailored suit emphasized his manly figure. On his wrist a Rolex was glistening. He was only two or three years older than Ed, but obviously he had been very successful.

"Do you like my little electronic toys? Ever seen that kind of security for a private property?"

Ed humored him, being adequately impressed. Yet he could not quite help teasing his boastful Marine buddy just a little: "Are you aware that a tall guy – just a little taller than me – could easily turn the monitor an inch and then your whole security would go down the pan, because he could pass behind the monitored area, get over the gate and open it from the inside?"

Bixby stared at him in disbelief. "Are you sure?! I'll have to check that. At any rate it's a good thing to have a detective review my installations – and for free. You sure have earned your dinner already!"

"Edward, what will our guest think! He does not have to earn his dinner. Invite him in and offer him a drink!"

An exquisitely dressed woman in her late twenties was standing in the big door frame of the castle-like house. Her long, dark hair framed a beautifully made-up face… the perfect match for a young millionaire. Nevertheless Ed had an uneasy feeling. She would not have dressed up like that for him, would she? Were there any other guests? He was not even wearing a suit, thinking that this would be a rather informal, relaxed weekend, some sharing of old memories, perhaps a game of chess or pool…

Edward interrupted his thoughts: "Come on in, my friend. Meet my expensive wife Marilyn."

A servant picked a surprised Ed's duffel bag out of the trunk of his car and carried it into the house.

Unlike her husband, Marilyn hardly touched Ed's hand, and he in turn was very mindful not to get too close to her.

They entered a foyer with a majestic staircase in classical Italian baroque architecture. They stayed on the first floor though. To the left a door with a gilded handle led to a large rococo salon with modern furniture. A two-winged door opened on an art nouveau veranda.

Slightly confused Ed asked: "When was this mansion constructed?"

Edward laughed out loud, not embarrassed in the slightest. "My grandfather had it built in 1922. He didn't care about styles, if that is what you are wondering about. He just liked beautiful architecture, and we have to live with it now. I hate it. Marilyn prefers modern, functional furniture. What you can see is the gruesome result of this mix."

Mrs. Bixby cringed visibly, but seemed to recover quickly. "That's probably the reason why my husband tried to change the shape of the building last week by smashing his Jaguar into the corner of it."

Ed thought that he would have to be more diplomatic from now on. Smiling friendly he accepted the drink Marilyn offered him. It was green and orange and he had no idea what it consisted of. It tasted quite strong though, and if he didn't want to end up with foot-in-mouth disease he would have to be careful with that stuff.  
The Bixbys didn't seem to have the same scruples. They had already finished their second drink when a servant announced that dinner was ready.

The Sergeant wondered what the dining hall would be like. He was not disappointed: It was a knight's hall with a knight's armor in every corner of the room, and lit by a romantic candle chandelier.

Dinner Bixby-style seemed surreal. Edward and Marilyn sat at each end of a long table. Somewhere in the middle a chair awaited its guest. This configuration served to increase Ed's unease and the distance between his hosts.  
Despite the candles and Edward's efforts to keep the conversation friendly – at least towards Ed -, the atmosphere remained cold.  
Not accustomed to such a display of wealth, the detective didn't enjoy any of the dishes. He kept wondering why rich people needed three plates and three sets of cutlery for a meal. After dinner he could hardly remember what he had eaten. He remembered tasting caviar, which was way too salty for his palate, crayfish in some kind of sauce and a piece of meat, the name of which he had never heard before and already forgotten. Dessert was even more of a mystery. Had they served dessert? He wasn't sure...

* * *

At the same time Chief Robert T. Ironside was already sitting in bed. It was always easier when Mark helped him, so they had done it together before Mark had left for his free weekend. He needed that sometimes as well as the others, and Ironside could manage without him. He even _wa__nted_ to from time to time to prove that he was not helpless.

He allowed himself a nightcap. He didn't want to acknowledge the fact that he was feeling lonely.

His thoughts went to Mark, who had gone through a huge change from the angry delinquent to the helpful, caring law student he was now. Seeing his development was more satisfactory than bringing to justice a hundred criminals.  
Of course his young co-workers had helped Mark too. There was Eve, who had everything: beauty, wealth and brains, and who nevertheless did her job as a simple policewoman. And she did a great job! Where would she spend her weekend? In some expensive holiday resort? Doing art galleries with a rich admirer? Well, that was her business. She would come back on Monday with a bright smile on her face and doing dedicatedly what he expected her to do.  
At least he knew where the third one of his young friends was right now. He hoped that Ed would be able to relax. He was a little too serious for his age anyway, and he'd not even had time to lie down after a recent heavy blow to his head while undercover.

Ironside picked up the newspaper he knew almost by heart by now and re-opened it at the business section.  
"Bixby Corporations down 5%" was one of the headlines. The article was not very specific, but it seemed as if the morale among Bixby's employees was very bad. Salaries were low and working conditions unacceptable. And in the scrap iron business the personnel was still important, because customers could easily choose another dealer when they felt they were served in an unfriendly manner. The share market reacted negatively to such rumors. Perhaps Ed had not chosen the best moment to accept Bixby's invitation.

Tiredly the Chief put the newspaper aside, turned the light off and hoped he would be able to sleep… which, as all too often, would not be easy.

* * *

_Author's note:_  
_The description of the "dinner Bixby-style" has been written by my beta-reader. She is an expert on good cooking … and on a lot of other things. Thank you, Lemonpig!_


	2. Chapter 2

After dinner Ed felt the urgent need to retire. He didn't know what to say or ask without possibly hurting either Marilyn or Edward or both.  
"May I be excused? We had quite an intense time at work, as you may know…"

"You were even knocked unconscious during the investigation in that holiday resort, we read it in the newspaper. You must be exhausted." Marilyn was probably glad that he wanted to leave.

Thankful that she was smoothing the way for him, he nodded.

Edward got up and reached into a precious cigar case. He put a cigar in Ed's breast pocket. "You may want to savor it later. Have a good night!"

A servant was called. He had to show Ed to his room.  
Leaving the knights' hall Ed saw out of the corner of his eye an open newspaper, roughly folded together, lying on the mantel of the fireplace. Surprised he took a closer look at the headline. "Bixby Corporations down 5%," he read there. 5% of 10 million or so, that was quite a loss! Was this the reason for the tension he had felt between Edward and Marilyn? It would be understandable.  
Nevertheless Edward had shown off his wealth. Why?

Closing the door behind him, he heard Marilyn say: "Did you absolutely _have_ to give him one of these disgusting cigars? Now his room will stink as horribly as yours does!"

He could not hear her husband's answer, because Edward didn't even voice it: "Marilyn, if I can't have your affection, I will do everything to keep this one friend who means a great deal to me."

The servant opened the door to a neoclassical bedroom. "You have your own bathroom on your right," he informed the guest. "If you need anything, don't hesitate to ring the bell. Have a pleasant night, Sir."

Ed's duffle bag was standing on a chair near his bed. His pajamas were nicely arranged on the bed which was turned down.

The detective shook his head. This might be what people called a comfortable life**; **still he didn't like it when somebody opened his bag!

In his stomach he felt a huge knot. What in blazes had he eaten? Moreover he was thirsty because he had hardly drunk any of the heady wines offered with the dinner.

Two glasses of water helped against the thirst, but not against the knot.

Ed brushed his teeth thoroughly, hoping that he would get rid of the bad taste the evening had left in his mouth: The palpable tension between a supposedly happily married couple, their drinking too much, the losses of the company and the display of wealth… everything fitted together as badly as the architectural styles in this house. What a mess!

He would have liked to back out, but couldn't without being rude.

Why hadn't he gone fishing instead?!

When he took off his jacket he remembered the cigar in his breast pocket. The thought of its price alone made his stomach revolt. Actually he had not liked the cigars in the resort either. Smoking was a bad habit anyway.  
Defiantly he decided to stop smoking as of now. Immediately. For good.  
It seemed to be the only part of the whole mess he could handle right now, and it was somewhat of a relief to be able to handle at least something.

Somebody knocked at his door. Decisively he dropped the cigar onto the table and opened up.  
It was Edward, and he was looking very different now… not like a boastful millionaire, but rather like a nabbed teenager seeking help from his big brother.

"May I come in?"

"It's your house."

"Yes, unfortunately it is."

Brown looked at him questioningly.

"You know, it is a millstone around my neck. Not only this house but everything, the swimming pool, the electrical toys, the money, the estate back home, the company, everything."

Ed didn't quite understand. Houses and a company could easily be sold, and although he lacked the experience he couldn't imagine that getting rid of money was a problem. "Would you explain that, please?"

"See, I inherited all that. Well, basically. I'm only respected because I am the boss of Bixby enterprises and because of what I have.  
I joined the Marines because I wanted to prove my father wrong who had said that I was nothing but a spoiled brat. He was right though. I didn't get far in the Marines. Although you are younger than me you were my superior officer."

Ed had never looked at it that way.

Bixby went on: "You accepted me the way I was. At first you didn't even know that I was rich, and when you knew it made no difference to you. I wanted to be like you. You cared for us. You were fearless, but cautious and smart. You know how the boys called you? 'Steady Eddy'."

Ed knew this nickname, it had been used in the police academy too.

"They were quite shook up when you were hit. They had believed that you of all people were invulnerable."

"Well, I was not."

"I know, but you made the best of it. You do something with your life, you protect the weak and you fight crime to make the world a better place.  
You don't need a 500-dollar suit to look good. You worked for what you are now and everybody expects you to make a spotless career on the force.  
I would trade with you any time if I could. I was just born rich, and now not even my marriage goes well, although Marilyn can have whatever she wants."

Ed thought about Eve. She was rich too. The difference was that she had found a meaning for her life in fighting crime.

"Perhaps Marilyn can't see a sense in her life. I mean – it doesn't have to be a baby. If she could care for other people…she might be happier, and so might your marriage, and you too. Don't you think you could talk to her about what she really wants?"

Pensively Edward looked up to his taller friend. "I'll think about it."

At that he left.

* * *

**Saturday**

Ironside didn't get a wink of sleep that night.  
It had happened before, and this time it was not even an urgent case that robbed him of his sleep, just an uneasy feeling.  
Was it because he was not used to being alone anymore? Probably more the contrary: Not knowing how his friends were doing.  
Well, they were grown-up people. There was actually nothing to worry about.  
That was what he had kept telling himself, but to no avail. Sighing he turned around in his bed.  
He could as well get up, although it was still very early. The pain was always worse on such a morning, and of course just now Mark was not here to help him. Slowly he tackled the slow process of getting dressed.

At least the coffee would be the way he liked it. When he was just about ready to have his first cup he was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone.

* * *

Ed had not slept either.  
He had been thinking about his old buddy – or his rich friend? - and a little about himself.  
How strange that his life as a simple sergeant of detectives should be a millionaire's dream. Still it was true: Ed himself would not have wanted his life to be any different, and much less would he have traded it for the shiny, hollow, complicated one of an Edward Bixby. He was a lucky man indeed.  
This insight was well worth a night's sleep.

Surprised he heard somebody knock at his door at six o'clock in the morning.

"Come in, it's open!"

It was Bixby himself. He looked bleary-eyed and pale, his hair was a mess and his suit looked like it had been slept in, which Ed doubted: Edward had probably not slept at all, but hardly was he feeling as relaxed and contented as his guest.

Without any introduction he blurted out: "Ed, look at this."

'This' was a letter, or rather a handwritten note.

"Mr. Bixby you are in danger." It was signed: "Somebody who means well."

Automatically Ed turned the letter in his hands, only touching the edges of it. "Do you recognize the handwriting?"

"No, it looks disguised to me."

"How did it reach you?"

"It was lying in front of my bedroom door. And Ed – the servants are gone."

Alarmed, Brown looked up. "What are you planning to do? Considering all this - will you leave the mansion?"

"No, I won't. This might be a trick to lure me out of the house. Then thieves would have an easy job."

"Just give me a minute to get dressed then we can decide what we will do."

When Ed met Edward in the salon downstairs, yesterday's newspaper was lying on the table, opened on the same page.

"Is there anything I should know about this?" asked Ed.

"No. Well, ok, my business isn't at its best right now."

The Sergeant skimmed the article.  
"Do you think the danger might come from your employees or from somebody who has lost a lot of money in shares?"

"I don't know. I just don't know." Edward seemed helpless and dejected.

"Let me call my boss. He has a lot more connections than I do, especially in the world of business."

* * *

Ironside picked up the phone. "Yes, Ed?" He listened attentively.

"I'll take a taxi out there."

* * *

There were only two flat steps to surmount, and Ed and Edward managed easily to pull the Chief up to the first floor of the mansion.  
Nothing in his rugged, handsome face gave away that he had not slept all night. The trio settled in the salon.

Pensively Ironside looked at the two young men. There was his alert Sergeant, looking neat and fit as usual in only shirtsleeves and pants off the peg, and beside him the swanky millionaire, hung over and slightly disheveled.  
"Where's _Mrs._ Bixby?"

"She's in the smoking room next door. She is a little nervous." Edward didn't mention that they had already had a heated quarrel this morning about Edward's way of managing his company. She was not keen on seeing anybody right now.

Ironside had made the same connection as Ed. "Of course, we don't know if the mentioned 'danger' is physical or rather a matter of business. I would prefer being ready for the first one, even if this should prove unnecessary later."

Interrupting himself the Chief cocked an ear. "What sort of sound is that?"

Ed headed towards the glass door to the veranda. Without opening it he saw that people were standing around in the garden. Lots of people, most of them men, and more of them were pouring in. Their faces didn't look friendly. "So much for your security system," he stated dryly.

"Bix-by, Bix-by, high-er sala-ry!" they started chanting.

"Will they storm the house?" Bixby asked anxiously.

"How should I know?" Ironside asked impatiently.  
"Do you have construction plans of the house? We have to know where they could penetrate."

Edward went to get them.

Ironside looked up at his friend, tilting his head in his unique way. "Is this what you call 'a weekend off'?"

"Perhaps I'm already too old to start something new," Ed smiled. "Thanks for coming, Chief."

A scream alerted both of them.


	3. Chapter 3

It came from the room next door. Ed sprinted out into the corridor. Ironside followed suit.  
To the left, under the baroque staircase, a door led into the smoking room from the Biedermeier period.  
There he found Ed fighting with a big man whose face was hidden by a ski mask. A beautiful young woman – supposedly Mrs. Marilyn Bixby - lay on the plush carpet, sobbing uncontrollably. The masked man forced Ed towards the bookcase which covered the wall. The Sergeant was pressing his right arm against his ribs. He backed away from the heavier adversary, but then surprised the attacker with one of his fast left hooks. The man stumbled. Ironside grabbed the fire tongs which were lying in front of the fireplace. Considering this as a serious menace the intruder escaped through the open window, dropping a blood-stained knife. The last Ironside saw of him was the back of his head which was covered with brown, curly hair, because he pulled off the ski mask.

Bixby appeared in the doorframe. His voice sounded commanding and too loud, just like when Ironside had seen him for the first time in that holiday resort: "Now what the hell is going on here?!"

The Chief didn't pay any attention to him. Ed had slowly sunk onto one of the beautiful wing chairs. He was still pressing his arm against his chest. His teeth were clenched and his body looked rigid. "Ed, are you all right?"

He got no answer, not even his friend's usual "I'm fine."

Concerned he headed towards him. "Show me your injury."

Ed swallowed hard. "'t's just a cut," he managed finally.

"Arm or chest?"

Marilyn had stopped sobbing. Bixby helped her to her feet. Both of them stared at Ed. Below his arm, his once-white shirt was turning crimson, and very quickly so.

Gently the Chief pulled Ed's arm away from his body. Through the torn shirtsleeve it was bleeding profusely in fits and starts. "This is an arterial hemorrhage," he said calmly. "Just a cut, as you say, but we've got to stem the flow of blood immediately and get you to a hospital."

"I'm afraid that the crowd out there will not let us through," Bixby pointed out.

He picked up the phone but put it back immediately. "No way to call an ambulance, the phone's dead."

"Then think of a way to get him out!" Worry made Ironside's voice sound harsh.

Brown raised his right arm to reduce the bleeding. With his left hand he wordlessly loosened his tie and handed it to the Chief.

Seeing him sway slightly and his face turn paler by the minute Ironside ordered in an unusually soft tone: "Lie down before you fall. Mr. Bixby, you apply a makeshift tourniquet."

"How? I've never done that for real!"Desperately Edward stared at the blood flowing out of Ed's arm, but not because it ruined his expensive carpet. He had been in the Marines long enough, he knew well that his former superior officer was in danger of lapsing into hemorrhagic shock. Through the window he heard the shouting of the strikers, which added to his stress.

The Chief explained him step by step how to apply increasing pressure on the injured arm with the help of the tie. A thin stick from the pile of firewood served as windlass. Bixby turned it, tightening the tourniquet gradually, and slowly the bleeding subsided. Ironside's handkerchief was bound around to keep the stick in place.

Ironside knew that it must hurt, but only a thin layer of sweat on Ed's forehead told him that he was right.

The Chief was already facing the next problem: How would they get Brown through the rioters? The tourniquet could not stay in place for more than one hour – two at the very most - or he would risk losing his arm.

"I will talk to the people out there. Perhaps I can get through to them," Ironside stated determinedly.

"You can't be serious! How can you talk to the people who have done this to your friend?!" shouted Bixby.

Ironside shook his head. "I don't really believe that the strikers want to harm anybody. Probably not even the intruder intended that, he was just surprised that your wife was in the room. Yet he was probably a thief taking advantage of the riot, it happens often that way. But you are right insofar as they are outraged and may not let you pass with Ed. We can't take that chance."

"Edward, what about the passageway to the boathouse?" Marilyn threw in.

Surprised the Chief looked at her. He had not been expecting anything useful of the young woman.

"She's right, Sir. There is a tunnel to the boathouse. My grandfather built it in the twenties because it reminded him of a castle in Scotland that he loved. We don't use it anymore, but I'm sure it's still intact. Still they may be able to stop us in the harbor if they see us there."

"I will try to keep them busy, especially when you leave the boathouse. How much time will you need to get there? Let's compare our watches."

They did. "About half an hour should do," uttered Edward.

Ironside was worried. "That would not leave you much time to get Ed to a hospital in time to save his arm. Try to be quicker. And will you be able to carry him? He won't walk far in his state."

"We will," Marilyn answered bravely. "You just try to keep the crowd busy talking so that they don't notice us when we leave by boat."

Bixby nodded. "Ok, it's twenty minutes then."

"Use your scarf as a sling for his arm. It must not be lower than his heart. And hurry."

"Consider it done, Sir," said Edward, slinging Marilyn's silk scarf around Ed's neck and arm.

Ironside threw a last glance at his Sergeant. His stomach churned. Ed looked very young and vulnerable. His life depended on Ironside and the Bixbys' help. As far as the Chief was concerned, he would give his very best. Reassuringly he gave his friend's left shoulder a quick squeeze.

Ed was helped to his feet by the Bixbys. He fought the rising dizziness, but without Edward's support he would have tumbled down.

Slowly they made their way down to the cellar. Ed had to lean more and more onto his old buddy.

"I'm a little out of shape, I'm afraid," Edward muttered soon. The Sergeant was a slim man, but being 6ft 2 he was quite a dead weight.

About halfway down to the sea he had to let go and soundlessly he slipped to the ground.

Marilyn directed the beam of her flashlight onto his body. He was not unconscious – not quite – but obviously not able to fight anymore.  
Bixby remembered him well from his Marine days: Ed Brown was not one to give up. His condition had to be serious. The flat and fast breathing and his cramped position only confirmed this estimation. In addition to that they were running out of time.

"Hang in there, buddy," he said, and to his wife, "Marilyn, now we need each other, and Ed needs us. This won't be easy, but I'm sure we can do it. Give me the flashlight."  
She did, and he stuck it between his teeth.

"And now please take his legs." Again she complied.  
Edward tried to get a good grip around his friend's upper body, and together they stood up. The tunnel was quite narrow for this kind of exercise, and they were both unaccustomed to heavy work. But they managed. In the dancing torchlight they carried Ed through the tunnel. When they reached the boathouse, they were out of breath.  
With a last effort they dumped the Sergeant as gently as possible into a small motorboat.

In the daylight penetrating the windows of the boathouse his face looked ashen now. He had lost consciousness.

"We've got to hurry," whispered Edward. They both stepped into the boat.

Bixby took the oars. Twenty-one minutes had passed. As quietly as possible he maneuvered the boat out into the harbor.

* * *

In the meantime Chief Ironside had to do his part of the job.  
Slowly he wheeled out onto the terrace.  
A wall of noise seemed to confront him. He just sat there quietly, hoping that nobody would throw anything at him.  
He wasn't much worried about himself though. His concern was his friend. The cut itself was probably no problem if treated correctly. Yet the blood loss seemed to be dangerously high; and if the Bixbys could not reach a hospital in time, the tourniquet would cost Ed his arm. However Ironside's only way to help was by keeping this crowd in line.

"Where's Mr. Bixby? We want to talk to him!" shouted finally a tall man who seemed to consider himself as some sort of leader.

The Chief didn't answer the question directly. "I'm Robert Ironside. I'm with the San Francisco police. I understand your discontent and I promise that we can work something out together. I am entitled to negotiate with you."  
Well, that was perhaps a little exaggerated, but he would see to it that it would become true.

The noise had become a little quieter now, and the voice of another man cut through: "I know Chief Ironside. He is all right. I think we can trust him."

"Now tell me what exactly it is that you intend to achieve with this reunion." Ironside deliberately avoided terms like 'strike' or 'riot'.

Again it lasted several minutes until the noise ebbed away enough for the leader to be heard. Ironside didn't mind. As long as the people were unorganized and just shouting around they did not get violent, and it was not likely that they would enter the house – except for possible thieves who wanted to take advantage from the riot. Those were the least of his problems right now.

"We want a rise of our salaries."

Well, this was to be expected.

"I am with you. Is there anything else?"

The turmoil began anew. If things had not been that serious for Ed, Ironside would almost have had to hide a smile. His plan was working just fine.

"There's no agreement on that yet!" shouted the tall leader after a long time.

Ironside took a quick glance at his watch. Nineteen minutes had passed.

"In that case I make a suggestion. Are there any house servants among you?"

For once he didn't have to wait long. Two men and a woman approached the veranda.

"Please go to the cellar and get some beer for these people. I'm sure you will find some snacks there too. Then you all make yourselves a little more comfortable and discuss your main demands and elect three people who will come up to negotiate directly with me."

This time the uproar sounded much friendlier. The three domestics vanished around the corner of the house, supposedly to get into the cellar. The others built groups sitting together.  
Behind them, Ironside saw a boat disappear out of the small harbor.


	4. Chapter 4

Thanks to Ironside's smart negotiation technique the Bixbys made it unseen out of the harbor.  
Respiring, Edward started the engine.  
His wife tried to bed the patient as comfortably as possible onto his left side, placing a leather cushion under his head. Of course there was not enough room for his long legs.

Edward nodded friendly at her: "You are doing great, thank you. It used to be Ed who helped us keep track of things in such situations. He never panicked, he was always calm, level-headed and caring – just like you today."

Marilyn smiled at him, surprised and thankful.  
But then she saw fresh, bright blood seeping out through Ironside's handkerchief. "He must have lost so much blood already. What shall we do?"

Edward was unsure himself. "Leave the tourniquet that way. I'll drive as fast as I can."

"His hands are cold as ice!"  
She took off her sequined cardigan and covered the patient's upper body. Obviously it would not help much.  
Her husband noticed it and gave her his jacket too.  
The young detective was oblivious to the troubles the rich couple went through for him.

As nobody followed them Edward went on shore right after reaching town. They would get on much faster by car.

He stopped a cab. "We have an injured man here. Please help us get him to a hospital."

When the cabdriver saw the amount of blood around Ed in the soiled boat he jumped back into his taxi. "Not with my cab, no Sir. The cleaning would be more expensive than what you'd pay me…" and off he drove.

Frustrated Bixby stepped back into the boat. For a moment he doubted that his friend was still alive. He felt for a pulse. He had difficulty finding it, but then he managed. It was weak and racing.

"Elevate his legs, Marilyn, that way the blood supply to his brain will be sufficient. At least I hope so."

"Couldn't we call an ambulance?" she asked.

But there was no phone booth to be seen.  
Instead a second cab came by, driven by a huge Afro-American driver.

"Sir, this is an emergency. Please help us!"  
After a quick look into the boat the driver understood immediately.  
It looked almost easy as he lifted the unconscious Sergeant out of the boat with little help from the Bixbys.  
Ed was placed on the rear seat of the cab, Marilyn beside him. Edward got into the co-driver's seat.

"Where to?"

Edward gave him the name of the nearby hospital. It was a very expensive private hospital, but they knew him there. Ed would be admitted.

An emergency physician took care of the patient right away. "How long has the tourniquet been in place?" was his first question.

"Seventy minutes."

Ed was wheeled into surgery.

For the first time in a long time Edward took a close look at his wife. Her hands and clothes were soiled with Ed's blood, her hair was a mess and at least two fingernails were broken off.

"Mrs. Bixby, you are a wonderful woman and absolutely smashing. Thank you for caring for my friend."

Edward's outer appearance matched Marilyn's. "You look like crap and I love you, Mr. Bixby," she answered.

Marilyn stayed at the hospital, while Edward made his way back to his house and to his other problem.

* * *

The strikers had made themselves comfortable, drinking Bixby's beer and eating peanuts and potato chips.  
They continued discussing, and from what Ironside heard their demands mounted by the minute. It was probably better if he did something against that.

"Do you think that you are ready to elect the three negotiators now?" he shouted down into the garden.

The noise increased again, then the tall man approached, flanked by two others, one of them short and a little fat, the other of medium size and red-haired.

"Is it all right if we join you?" asked the tall one politely.

The Chief nodded.

The three climbed over the railing of the veranda. For the ringleader this was easy: He was about six feet three tall, slender and square-jawed … a painful reminder of Ironside's Sergeant, to whom he bore a vague likeness. The Chief wondered how Ed might be doing but he had to concentrate on the task at hand.

The trio took seats near the Chief. They introduced themselves as Paul Turner, Alfred Link and Ross Goldsmith.  
Turner started. "We can't see why Mr. Bixby lives in luxury while we have trouble to sustain our families. This is unjust. We want that our salaries be increased by 10%."

Ironside thought that the man was right, even though he might not understand all the finesses of running a business.  
"You have to consider that the Bixby shares have lost 5% within a week. If you demand too much right now, the company might go bankrupt. That would not serve the purpose, would it?" He was not quite sure in view of the financial state of 'Bixby enterprises', but this sounded adequate to himself.  
He went on: "Please consider another possibility: What about a rise of 5% plus profit sharing?" This would improve their motivation for sure.

The negotiators looked at one another puzzled.  
"We should discuss this among us," said Turner reasonably.

"Is there no food up here?" asked Link harshly.

Ironside had to refrain himself from swearing his head off, considering that he hadn't even had any breakfast. His stomach was growling angrily. "If food is so important to you, why don't you stipulate a paid coffee break?!" he asked, fuming.

"Now, that's a good idea!" exclaimed Goldsmith. "We will think about that."

Well, thought Ironside, actually the idea was only half bad. Contented people with a full belly would work better than hungry, unsatisfied ones.

He had to wait a full twenty minutes. Suddenly he saw Edward Bixby sneak back into the boathouse. He took this as a good sign.

Finally Turner announced their verdict: "We will ask our co-workers if they agree to a rise of 5% combined with profit sharing – the workers get 30% of the net gain – plus a paid coffee break. You in turn convince Mr. Bixby that we will not return to work if he does not concede that much at least."

At that they turned around and climbed back over the railing.


	5. Chapter 5

Ch5

Ironside returned into the salon. Bixby entered right after him.

"How's Ed?"

"He is in good hands. We took him to the best private hospital in town."

"How long has the tourniquet been in place?"

"Seventy minutes," repeated Bixby, knowing now how important this was, and proud that they had made it within the safe time limit.

"Thank God."

Edward nodded. "He'll be fine."

Ironside felt relieved, but worn out. Yet he knew that they had to talk business now. Bixby looked very skeptical when he heard the conditions for the end of the strike.

"The 5% raise will cost you less than last week's stock price loss, since the salaries are only a small part of the volume. With workers motivated by the coffee break and the hope of profit-sharing you will make up for that."

"Of course that's how you treat your people too, isn't it?" asked Bixby sourly.

"Young man, you have no idea of the amount of coffee consumed in my office, and always during working hours!" answered Ironside indignantly, not mentioning the amount of unpaid overtime hours his co-workers did.

* * *

The threesome came back.

"We accept the negotiated conditions, but we want a written contract, and it has to be signed by Mr. Bixby and you, Mr. Ironside. The men trust you. We believe that if you sign it then it will be kept."

Ironside threw a look at Edward, and based on his nod he said: "We will write down this agreement and sign it, but in the meantime I want you to tell the man who disconnected the telephone to fix it. I need that phone because a friend of mine is in danger."

"Of course, Sir, we'll see to that immediately."

"And Turner," added Bixby nonchalantly, "before you leave, please turn the surveillance camera back the way it was, will you?"

The Chief didn't show any sign of his surprise, but he noted that Bixby was almost grinning: at least he had won this last little skirmish.

Shortly afterwards a man shouted through the garden that the phone should be working now.

Ironside's first call was to the hospital. He got connected with the intensive care unit.

"Mrs. Bixby speaking."

"How's Ed?"

"You can talk to him directly."

This information took a load off the Chief's mind.

Marilyn handed the receiver over to Ed.

"I'm fine, can you get me out of here?" asked Ed. His voice sounded weak and strained and he could not fool his boss for a second, but the fact that he tried to fool him at all was already a good sign.

"You stay right where you are and recover. I have no use for a Sergeant who is just lying around in my office and drinking my coffee!" Ironside grumbled, but he didn't fool anybody either.

A doctor approached Ed. Checking him over and noticing that Brown struggled to keep up a brave facade, he said to Marilyn: "I must ask you to leave the patient now, madam. He needs rest. I assure you that he will recover nicely."

* * *

At the Bixbys' residence Edward and Ironside finished and signed the contract with the employees.

Satisfied, Turner, Link and Goldsmith left, and quickly the garden emptied and the estate calmed down.

"Edward, I think that this contract is a good thing for you. Your employees will work with much more motivation now that they get profit-sharing."

"You have convinced me, Sir. I am just a little worried, especially about the servants and the cook who live in our house. There _was_ some violence today."

Ironside shook his head. "Think of every one of them as being the possible writer of the warning letter. They may very well have written it together, because they all wanted to warn you. And if you are fair towards them you will never have to be afraid of them.  
I'm sure that the intruder who hurt Ed was not one of your employees. Or is there a man of 6ft 2, weighing about 220 pounds, with brown, curly hair among your employees?"

Bixby shook his head no.

"We will find him with the help of the fingerprints on the knife."

"Thank you, Mr. Ironside. I will never forget what you and Ed did for me and my wife today."  
Of course he would pay for Ed's stay in the hospital.

"I will never forget this day either," added Marilyn, who was just entering.  
"When we had to care for Ed we needed each other, and badly. It has been the first time in a long time that we really did do something together. It was great. Sometimes during the past months I had the feeling that my life had no meaning. When this man attacked me in the smoking lounge I was scared to death, but actually I would not have cared if I had died. But then suddenly I had to be very much alive to save Ed."

Ironside understood. "What are you planning to do? You don't intend on going back to an aimless life, do you?"

Edward and Marilyn looked at each other.

Slowly Marilyn uttered, "I think that it was the best moment ever in my life when the doctor at the hospital said that Ed would survive thanks to our help. I would love to help saving other people's lives."

Edward went further. "We could start a project together, honey – perhaps a hospital in Africa or thereabouts, that would give our marriage a meaning and it would save many people's lives."

Spontaneously Marilyn embraced him.

Ironside grinned widely. "That's a wonderful idea. You could start saving mine."

The couple stared perplexed at him.

"By organizing something to eat! I have had neither breakfast nor lunch."

He was very hungry by now. This was the place where he had the alluring prospect of a really good dinner at least. He had earned it!

Marilyn answered, not embarrassed at all: "I have given the cook and the servants the evening off. I will make us something to eat - actually the only thing I can cook: hot dogs!"

* * *

_Author's note:  
Again I am very thankful for the interest of readers, reviewers, followers... and above all my wonderful, competent beta Lemonpig for her accurate work!_


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